A Soldier's Story
by R.J. Hamilton
Summary: Our soldiers return from war with scars deeper than we can imagine. Here's PFC Phillip Mitchell's story.


**A Soldier's Story**

Their feet fall perfectly to the beat of the Army band's rendition of _The Washington Post _as the bass drum taps the rhythm loudly. The scorching 4th of July sun casts an ugly harshness in its brightness and heat as the waves surge from the pavement at their boots up to their berets. Sweat beads on their foreheads as they try to maintain a confident air about their stature. The different shades of gray in their Army combat uniforms squares fade together in vision with the swaying of their fully-sleeved arms. The sounds of the soldiers' boots as they hit the asphalt, is not audible over the thudding of the drum. A crowd of people watches and they cheer at the formations as they pass by their positions on the sidewalks and curbs.

One of the soldiers sticks out from the rest. His face is crumpled into a scowl. The sweat beads on his forehead more than the others. The water droplets glisten with the sun's rays. His glasses ride the tip of his pointy, white nose. They fog slightly on the lenses with the moisture from his skin as it turns to vapor. The light gray coloring of his uniform is forming a sweaty wetness in his armpits. His tan, desert combat boots are darkening in color around the ankles as the heat gathers within them. His name is Private First Class Phillip Mitchell, PFC for short.

Contained within the 4th of July celebration, there is another party to be had for the recent return of this unit from Iraq. For most of them, it was their first time away from their families, for others, third and fourth times. For Phillip, it was his first.

The sweat begins to work its way down his back and into the waist of his pants. It wriggles its way further into areas that are most uncomfortable. He maintains the discipline the Army has taught him and continues marching. The droplets are becoming more numbered and starting to wear on his brain. He tries to push his focus elsewhere and begins to stare at the back of a man's head, marching in front of him.

The sun blinds him more as he tries to ignore its effects. His feet are burning like he's standing atop a pit of coals. He can feel where blisters are beginning to form as the skin of his heels rub against the interior of his boots. He darts his eyes back and forth. People are standing everywhere. He notices a woman in blue jean shorts that are too tight for her thick legs. Her American flag designed shirt is tied at the belly button and her white tank top shows beneath. In her hand, is an icy cold soda, the frosty water droplets rest on the plastic's surface as they mock him from afar, Phil glares at them angrily. The taunting is the finally straw on his mentality. _I can't take it anymore! _He thinks to himself. He breaks ranks as he busts through the two files of soldiers to his right. He runs from the group frantically and, as he passes by the woman, knocks the beverage from her hand violently. He continues running as he hears whispers of astonishment from the observers. He ignores them and retains his strides on the city's sidewalks. The United States Army Band's music fades in the background behind him. He glances around as he runs looking for an escape route. Isolation and peace doesn't come to his rescue until he travels 3 or 4 blocks.

Phillip takes a right turn into an alleyway. The sun's rays don't find their way inside with him. The walls are light in color and windowless. There is a lone, dark green trash bin near the end of the corridor. He approaches it as he slows down to a walk. The smell of the hot decomposing garbage hits his senses. The rancidity is overwhelming, but that is not enough to stop him. He reaches into the front of his waistband and removes the pistol from its confines. He finds a place to squat beside the bin and leans against the wall as he stares at the gun. He flips it back and forth in his right hand. The metal is tempered in black. The only coloring is a small, red dot showing that the weapon's safety isn't on. He places the pistol near his hazel eye and gazes down the sights as he points it at the wall across the way. "Damn Iraqis," he says aloud to himself as he focuses on a small crack in the masonry. His mind wanders to a not-so-distant past.

The Iraqi streets of Baghdad are bright with the afternoon sun's intensity. It beats down on his Kevlar helmet. His sweat-soaked hair floods into the helmet's foam interior padding. Thin, black gloves protect his hands from the heat of the metal of his M-16 as he carries it at the low-ready. One hand is placed on the upper portion of the weapon where there is a thick, plastic casing around the barrel. The other hand is holding the firing handle with a finger placed neatly beside the trigger, not in the trigger-well itself.

His squad consists of 10 soldiers ranging in rank and age. They all come from different parts of the United States, but are all stuck on the rough streets of Baghdad together. So far from home, he can't help letting his mind wanders, wondering what his loved ones might be doing at this moment. With a 7-10 hour difference and it being mid-afternoon, his family is sleeping, but it's not a realistic thought for him as he walks. They skirt the streets as random cars pass by their formation. There are 4 on one side and 5 on the other, one being the Squad Leader. Their M-16s are facing outwardly, toward the buildings next to them.

The houses are built with a white, stone-like material. The dust from the roads, due to the desert sands, takes away from their beauty and uniqueness. The buildings' walls are stained a yellowish color. Elderly women stand on their rooftops setting wet clothing and rugs over the edges of the walls to dry them out in the hot sun's rays. Their skin is a dark brown, leathery coloring and the wrinkles run deep within. The water drips from the cloth and runs down the walls, it evaporates before getting too far.

He observes the rooftops momentarily for a possible sniper and then returns to his visual sweeping of the area. A plastic bag floats from the top of a garbage heap as a gentle breeze sings calmly through the city. The smell wafts into his nostrils, which turns into nausea almost immediately. The breeze feels like a blow dryer set to a high heat position. He tries to ignore the rancidity of the decomposing materials as he continues walking his sector.

He nears the end of the street where the trucks are waiting for them. The heat from the exhaust of the high mobility multipurpose wheeled vehicles', Humvees for short, hits him as he passes to his assigned door of one of the 4 trucks. He opens the heavy aluminum alloy doors with a clicking of metal from the handle and hops in. The weight of his body armor and ammunition makes it a feat. He shimmies his way up to the gunner's hatch.

With a man in the vehicle's gun turret scanning with his .50 caliber gun, the Humvees begin to drive back to the forward operating base. The trip is only a couple miles, but the safety and security within makes every day's return seem like it takes an eternity to get there. PFC is in the gun turret of the 3rd truck. He has his battlement facing the right of the road. Each of the vehicles' gunners has their gun facing opposite sides of the road in order to cover all areas without flagging each other. In case of an accidental discharge, soldiers take every precaution necessary to not harm one another.

The sides of the tattered, rough road are littered with trash. The rocky sands spread for miles between buildings. Phillip turns his weapon from side to side scanning his area of the road. His eyes go to a piece of paper as it floats lazily across the dirt. A loud explosion suddenly rocks his vehicle. His ears ring from the blast. His eyes dart to the front as the driver slams on the vehicle's breaks. Phil hits the butt of his gun hard into the chest of his plated protective vest. The smell of burnt rubber flows into his nostrils violently. The 2nd vehicle in the convoy is flipped on its side to the left of the road. A large chunk of the asphalt is missing, leaving a crater. The dust falls gently to the ground like snow.

Phillip hears the loud conversation on the radio below. His vehicle's commander, who sits in the passenger's seat of the truck, is talking to headquarters. He is giving them a situation report and requesting assistance. Phil doesn't see any movement from the upside down Humvee. The damage would've been inflicted on the side opposite his field of vision. He begins to pray silently as he continues to scan for any further enemy contact. There is nothing and nobody anywhere. The soldiers are alone.

Others in the group get out of their vehicles while their gunners secure the area from their above positions. They go to the overturned truck. Phillip watches as one of the men places his arms on top of his head and lets his weapon hang in front on its sling. His mouth is saying _oh my God, oh my God _repeatedly, but he cannot be heard over the other trucks' engines. A door is pried open and a limp, bloody arm falls out. It is still attached to its body, but the person is either unconscious or dead. Two of the men stand in the door and free the body from its seatbelt confines. It drops to the roof of the vehicle and is pulled out. The soldier's clothing is riddled with blood spots from the shoulder to the arm. His head is covered as well. He isn't moving. They begin to check his vital signs as others go to the other side of the truck for the driver and rear passenger. They return empty-handed and frantic. The person sitting to the rear on the passenger side's door is retrieved. His condition is the same as the passengers. Their unmoving bodies lie in the sand as their buddies attempt to bring them back from the other side.

PFC Mitchell watches from his turret. He has abandoned his security in his concern for his friends. The reality of the situation doesn't sink in for any of the men until they get back onto the base. After a lengthy recovery of vehicle parts and pieces of friends who once smiled and laughed by their sides, they secretly mourn in private. Some of the men don't reflect on the situation at all. They pretend as if nothing had happened. Phillip Mitchell is one of the non-mourners. He goes to his room in the barracks and lies on his bed as though nothing's happened. His pain is tucked away in a secret, deep dark place in his mind.

A couple of weeks later, he's back out on the streets trying to ignore the rancidity of the garbage wafting in the air. He is sitting in his truck conducting a mounted patrol. They are driving around the neighborhoods looking for anything suspicious. They are showing the presence of coalition forces in the foreign country, both for the safety and the awareness to deter factions from conducting any violent acts. The vehicles come to a security halt as they pull off the road and maintain their distances from each other. The distance is to avoid the threat of improvised explosive devices or IEDs.

A mosque shadows PFC Mitchell's truck from the intense sunlight above. They are only halted for a few moments. He is sitting in the passenger's rear seat as he watches the children playing soccer in the field beside the road from the truck's window. Private Johnson, the gunner of Mitchell's truck, kicks at him playfully. It is a practice he often does to break the monotony of their patrols. Then a shot rings out from somewhere above. All of the men go on high alert. The gunners in the turret above begin to pivot and scan their areas in search of the gunfire's origin. The vehicles pull away from their positions in order to get out of the area. All of the gunmen are scanning, except for one. Blood begins to drip from the hole above and pours down onto the center of the Humvee that Mitchell is riding in. It flows from above like a creek as the gunner's knees give to his weight. His body falls into the truck right next to the men in the rear seats. A harness below the man holds him up at the knees as his upper body hits the center console. His face is oriented toward Phillip. His eyes are wide and empty beyond his bloodstained face. A hole marks the middle of his forehead where the sniper's bullet entered. PFC Mitchell and the man sitting in the seat opposite him act quickly. They grab some rags from the rear of the truck and apply pressure to the hole. They know it's too late. Once again, Phillip Mitchell doesn't shed a tear and the dark wall gets bigger inside him mind.

With the twelve month tour finally over, the unit makes its way back to their loved ones who've been patiently awaiting their return. PFC Mitchell marches into an open bay specifically designed for a welcome home affair. He falls into formation accordingly in front of their families who are sitting on the bleachers before them. He holds strong as his eyes survey the crowd in search of the ones he's been missing. He sees his wife and child. His son struggles in her arms a few bleachers up. Smiles are shared. There is a short speech given by an officer. He thanks them for all they've done. Finally, he allows the reunion. The formation and families collide with hugs and kisses. PFC Mitchell is finally greeted by his wife and little boy. His son was 1 year old when he left, now he's 2. She approaches him and hands the toddler to him. Phil hugs him lovingly. She watches them, but only smiles. They go home. His anticipation of sleeping in his bed for the first time in so long is a wonderful feeling.

A few days pass before she breaks the news to him. They sit on the back patio of their home on the base, smoking cigarettes. They are sitting at the new patio set she'd purchased while he was away. The set is white with a light, feminine floral pattern. He watches his son who's playing in the grass nearby.

"Phil, I have to tell you something," she begins. He continues to keep an eye on the little boy as he smiles and listens to her.

"Ok," he responds.

"I met someone while you were gone," she doesn't sugarcoat the news. His heart drops like an anvil in his chest and crushes his stomach. His smile fades quickly.

"Who is he?" He asks her sharply.

"Nobody you know. I met him in the commissary a couple of months after you left."

"So, this has been going on for ten months now and you couldn't have told me during one of our many phone conversations?" He maintains his calm while he questions her even though he's freaking out inside. He wants to throw up.

"I wanted to," she tries to grab his hand atop the table, but he jerks it away, "but I didn't want to upset you while you were over there. I've heard stories about people hurting themselves and I didn't want that to be you. I still care about you, Phil." He pushes his chair away from the table awkwardly as the bottom gets caught on an uneven piece of the concrete. He stands and the seat folds in on itself behind him.

"You're a lying, cheating bitch, do you know that?" He asks her as his tone begins to elevate. "I'm going out. We have the parade tomorrow and I want you gone by the time I get back." He goes into the house and collects some clothing quickly. She meets him in the kitchen as he begins to go out the door.

"Phil, can't we talk about this?" She asks him. He ignores her as he rubs his boy's head and smiles. He knows he's going to miss him, but also that he can't deal with this right now. He walks out the door and gets into his car, throwing the clothing on the seat. He drives off.

He sleeps in his car that night and changes for the parade in the barracks bathroom the next morning. He then drives down to the parade site where his battalion is set to meet. He parks his car and finds his position in the formation.

The gun waves back and forth in his hand. The sweat is still pouring down his back and forehead. He rubs his shirt sleeve against it to gather up some of the moisture, but it is quickly replaced. _I know what I have to do. _He thinks to himself as he stands and tucks the pistol back into his waistband. He runs to his car and pulls away. He makes his way onto the military post and approaches his house. He gets out and approaches the door to the home. She is standing in the kitchen. All of the violence he's endured over the last year flashes before his eyes. The truck flipped on its side with arms dripping blood. The wide-eyed gunner as his empty soul ran red and stared at him blankly. The last straw was the news she'd delivered so carelessly yesterday.

He pulls the gun from its confines and takes aim. She turns to him with her mouth wide.

"I trusted you! I loved you!" His voice is loud and bellows through the kitchen.

"Please don't," she pleads with him. "We can…" A gunshot rings through the house and she falls to the linoleum. The blood pools around her head almost instantly. His little boy begins to cry with the loud noise from the other room. Phillip goes into the living room. His son is in his playpen with a child's television show dancing on the screen. He reaches for the boy and places the gun on the sofa. He cuddles him, kisses his forehead, calms him, and places him back into the playpen.

"I'm sorry," he whispers apologetically and lovingly as the boy smiles at him. PFC Phillip Mitchell goes to the telephone on the counter and calmly dials 911. "There's been a shooting," is all that he says to the dispatcher as he places the phone back onto the cradle. "Daddy loves you," he tells his little boy as he picks up the pistol and goes back into the kitchen. The kitchen isn't visible from the living room. He methodically places the gun next to his temple and quickly squeezes the trigger. His body falls next to hers and the red pools flow together as one.


End file.
